


Half-Baked

by vicarious2914



Category: Watchmen (2009), Watchmen - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-14 20:23:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28926498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vicarious2914/pseuds/vicarious2914
Summary: In which Janey Slater steps into the intrinsic field generator instead.
Relationships: Dr. Manhattan/Janey Slater, Jon Osterman/Janey Slater, Laurie Juspeczyk/Janey Slater
Comments: 1
Kudos: 4





	Half-Baked

“I said,” I scream, “Leave me alone!”

On Venus,

I am looking at the stars. They’re so far away, and their light takes so long to reach us. All we ever see of stars are their old photographs.

There is one of Jon and me.

It’s July 1959, and he’s in love. 

While the carnival tunes play at each booth, a photographer takes our picture. He thanks the photographer, while I turn and murmur, “Gosh, Jon, I wish he gave us a little notice – I’m sure I made a face.”

He smiles a bit to himself, looking down, and says, “Oh no, no, I’m, uh, sure that you’ll look beautiful.” He looks up again at me, hesitation and adoration in his eyes. He’s always so nervous around me. He leans in slowly and gives me a kiss. 

His name is Jon Osterman. Like me, he is a physicist. I am twenty-eight years old. We were introduced by a coworker: Wally Weaver. It is February 12, 1981. Wally is murdered by me, by the cancer that I gave to him. 

Jon throws a ball, and it knocks all the pins of the game down. He wins a stuffed bear, which he gives to me. On the way home, while the town clock strikes eleven nineteen seconds early, I drop my watch, and it breaks on the concrete. I follow him to his hotel room, and 

that night Jon and I have sex for the first time. 

My watch is laying on his bible, fixed. He keeps it.

A month from now, the accident awaits me. 

We walk out of the chamber that contains the intrinsic field generator, discussing a late dinner. Jon has left his watch inside – forgetting the time, he starts and says “Oh, I’ll, uh, catch up with you guys, I think I left my watch inside.”

It is my watch. I touch his arm and tell him that I will take care of it. 

I cross the room to the intrinsic field center. 

I find his watch. 

When I get to the door, Wally is turning white, 

“The program’s locked in. We can’t override the time lock,” he stares at me through the door, wide-eyed. 

I am terrified. 

“Janey?” says Jon. The machinery behind me starts sparking and groaning with effort. He looks confused and scared through the fogged glass of the door, “I’m sorry, Janey,” he says, shaking his head, “But I can’t…” He raises his hand to his mouth, horrified. He comes closer and presses his other hand to the glass. 

“Jon, don’t leave me,” I scream, starting to panic, “Don’t leave me!”

“I won’t,” he says, “I won’t ever.” He is still standing there. It is the only time I see him cry. Wally is still standing there too, mouth open, silent. 

I back away from the door, feeling the static from the electricity and watching as the hair on my arms raise. I have his watch in my palm. It is counting down from ten at 60 beats per minute. As there are three seconds until midnight, 

It is May 12, 1959, when I am introduced to Jon. I buy him a beer. This sets me apart from other women. As I pass him the cold, perspiring glass, his fingers touch mine. 

As there is one second until midnight, my father is teaching me a tune on the violin. 

“Yes, Jane, good,” he smiles down at me, proud, “Now it’s just a question of playing the runs together, at speed.”

I feel fear for the last time.

The electricity of the intrinsic field generator has now latched onto me, vaporizing first my clothes, then my skin, then my muscle, then my circulatory system, then my bones. 

A token funeral is held. There is nothing to bury. Jon keeps the snapshot in his wallet. It is the only photograph of me anyone has. A circulatory system is seen by the perimeter fence. A few days later, a partially muscled skeleton stands in the hallway, and screams for a moment before vanishing. 

Then, I am.

“Oh God,” Jon says, “Janey? Is that you?”

The news reports, “Nations from around the world still reeling from this morning’s announcement, possibly the most significant event in recent history. We repeat, the wonder woman exists, and she is American.”

They call me Miss Manhattan. They explain the name has been chosen for the reminder of my sex and for the ominous associations it will raise in America’s enemies. The marketing boys say I need a logo. 

I burn the atom Carbon into my forehead. 

If I am to have a symbol, it will be one that matters. They are shaping me into something gaudy, something lethal.

I take apart a tank and crush the parts back together. 

In January 1971, President Nixon asks me to intervene in Vietnam, something that his predecessors would not ask. A week later, the conflict ends. Some of the Viet Cong forces want to surrender to me personally. Hollis Mason, a retired costume hero, writes a book. In it, he calls my arrival the dawn of the superhero. I’m not sure if I know what that means. 

Wally takes more interviews. “You see, at the time, I was misquoted. I never said, ‘The wonder woman exists, and she is American.’ What I said was, ‘God exists, and she is American.’ Now, if you begin to feel an intense and crushing feeling of religious terror at the concepts, don’t be alarmed. That indicates only that you are still sane.” 

It is Christmas, 1963. Jon tells me he is worried. He says I’m like a God now. I tell him I don’t think there is a God, 

“and if there is, I’m nothing like him.” I tell him I still want him, and that I always will. As I lie to him, it is September 4, 1970. I’m in a room full of people wearing masks. A woman looks at me and smiles. I am in love with her. Whenever Jon makes love to our neighbor, he comes home with another grey hair. To absolve himself, he accuses me of never loving him. He sweeps the earrings he bought for me onto the ground from the chest of drawers. It’s true. I have never worn those earrings. 

I prefer the music I discover here. I’m tired of Earth, of those people. I’m tired of being caught in the funnel of their lives. They claim their labors are to find paradise, yet their visions are shallow and selfish. Paradise was never lost. Nothing will be lost. Everything happens. It’s just too early. Always has been. Always will be too early.


End file.
